


Bright Lights, Bigger City

by catteo



Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteo/pseuds/catteo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bumper's pretty keen to get to LA where shenanigans await with John Mayer. Sadly, things rarely work out the way they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Lights, Bigger City

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arem/gifts).



_Six months ago:_

Bumper throws his duffel onto the passenger seat of his Pontiac Sunfire (Victory Red because, _really_? It’s a statement) and takes a second to check out the sorority girls walking across campus. One of them slapped him in the face a couple of nights ago, but he’d had his hand up her skirt for a good ten minutes before that, so he counts it as a win. Her loss, all things considered. Bumper’s not one to brag, but he’s been practicing holding his breath for the last ten years. He’s up to a minute and a half, and he can work magic with his tongue. He’s over these skinny bitches anyway, has an inexplicable yearning for someone with real curves. Man, his brain is really screwing with him these days.

 

He slides in behind the wheel, guns the engine and turns up the stereo. Bumper drives out of Barden harmonizing to “Your Body is a Wonderland” and intermittently throwing his patented ‘sexy glance’ at passing girls. It took three weeks of pouting and suggestively raising his eyebrows to himself in the mirror before he was happy with it. In the general scheme of things he figures it was time well spent, and nothing compared to the six months it took to find the perfect jeans to perform man-splits in. He squirms slightly in his seat at the memory of how battered his junk got before he found just the right blend of denim and lycra. 

 

Nobody really understands the sacrifices he’s made for his art. That damn collarless leather jacket he just bought cost two thousand dollars. So, basically, that rules out private lapdances for the next five days. In addition to which, it’s a real pain in the ass not to be able to practice his 'Grease' moves. Still, Bumper figures it’ll be worth it to see the look of respect on John Mayer’s face on the first day of rehearsals.

 

John Mayer. Johnny. Jonny M. JM. He mulls over the possible nicknames in his head. Bumper’s not a monster, he feels slightly guilty about leaving Donald behind, but he knows potential for bromance when he sees it, and sometimes you’ve just gotta move on. He can tell that he and John are destined for greatness as a duo, and he really needs to know where to get one of those _awesome_ Cowboy hats. Perhaps they could go hang out in Montana and write music together over the winter. Bumper wrestles his thoughts back to the present with difficulty.

 

He pulls over as he catches sight of Amy heading to class, parking so as to allow himself a good thirty seconds to lick his fingertips and get his brows in order. For a moment he wonders when he stopped calling her ‘Fat Amy’ in his head, but quickly dismisses the thought as way too disturbing. He gives himself a ten second pep-talk about being aca-awesome and a wink in the rear view mirror instead, before leaning out of the window, strategically positioning his arm in order to maximize his bicep.

 

“What’s _up_ Fat Amy? Gonna come visit when I’m a superstar in LA?”

 

“Yeah….” She pauses for a good five seconds and Bumper wonders if this is what hell feels like. “Probably no. The twig bitches out there can’t handle all this.” 

 

She body rolls up against his door for emphasis and Bumper swallows hard as he tries to focus on something other than his dry mouth and the rush of blood to his groin. 

 

“But maybe you could throw Mexican food at John Mayer for me?”

 

“Aca- _scuse_ me? That man is a legend of our times. He’s just waiting for the world to change, okay?” 

 

“Sure,” Fat Amy nods slowly. “Probably he and Sisqo should get together and make thongs popular again.”

 

“You just. Don’t. Get it.” 

 

Bumper taps her boobs with each word, just to get his point across. And maybe some cheap thrills. It’s about a thousand times better without the microphone in the way and he can tell that it’s turning her on. Fat Amy leans into the car, and Bumper moves in slowly, not wanting to spook her. Nobody can say he didn’t learn from his last restraining order. Turns out he’s read it wrong again though because Fat Amy’s simply squinting at the side of his head.

 

“Bumper, is that an earring?” 

 

Shit.

 

“Shit.” It slips out involuntarily. Nobody was supposed to see it before the grand reveal with an actual hoop. The stud looks pretty lame if he’s honest.

 

“Yeah Bumper… it really is. I gotta go. Rehearsals. We’re doing ‘Dear John’ today.” With that she beams at him and saunters off.

 

“Bitch.” 

 

He’s not sure if he’s pissed off or totally turned on. 

 

“Call me!” He yells at her retreating back before gunning the gas and heading towards his destiny, with his hero telling him to say what he needs to say. Bumper thinks it’s pretty sound advice and he’s thrilled to finally have a mentor that he can really look up to. People don’t realize how _exhausting_ it had been to lead the Treblemakers whilst also designing a successful line of sports sandals. He’s willing to bet that John will understand how hard it is to be taken seriously at the same time as being the biggest stud in the room. 

 

The future looks bright.

 

_Today:_

 

Bumper just doesn’t get it. This was supposed to be his shot at the bigtime, riding to the top of the charts on a wave of glory. Instead, John Mayer won’t match pitch with him, and doesn’t even bother to remember his name. Not only does he now have to answer to ‘Boomer’, but he was slapped by two of the back-up dancers before lunch. This is not how things were supposed to go down. Bumper doesn’t do failure. He’s a winner. A champion. A freaking _Treblemaker_. Apparently LA has yet to appreciate the finer things in life. 

 

In his darker moments he misses the Treblemakers, Donald most of all. But Donald’s got his own life going on now. Every time they talk he keeps going on about this ‘really cool chick’ he’s hooking up with. Apparently she’s got this insanely dark history that she channels into her music. All broken rhythms and syncopal beats. Bumper missed all the pertinent details (dress size, eye colour, state of her ass), too busy flexing what he assumes are his pecs (or at least will be one day) in the mirror. 

 

He called Donald last night, desperate for someone to talk to who wouldn’t laugh at him for writing his own fanmail. Donald offered to match pitch with him before he hung up. Bumper tried to convince himself that the lump in his throat wasn’t there, but then Donald asked if he was in Treble, and it all came pouring out.

 

It’s always the classics that get him. 

 

“John doesn’t even like my jacket. He told me that we’re doing plaid and denim and my aviators are, like, _so_ last season. I don’t get it man, _you_ know it’s all about tight chinos and sandals, right? This Brokeback shit is aca-awful. Have you even _tried_ doing a heel spin in cowboy boots? It’s not possible!”

 

“Dude, I hear you. The ladies dig the chinos. Do you still have to go to Montana and be Jake Gyllenhall to John’s Heath Ledger?”

 

“Shut-up nerd. I’m going to stay in LA and practice my oral magic.” 

 

“Aca-awesome. Hey, who would you rather? Honey Boo Boo’s mom, or a rabid kangaroo.”

 

“You can go now.” 

 

He’d managed not to think about her for at least three hours, but that was enough to make him miss Amy. Getting wasted on Appletinis and drunk dialing her at 2am probably wasn’t the best idea, but there’s something about the way she says ‘cabbage-patch man whore’ that really turns him on. 

 

He keeps having flashbacks to sobbing as she started talking about his manboobs, but the next thing he remembers is waking up naked on his couch with drool on his five hundred dollar cashmere throw. Not cool. 

 

He’s dry-swallowing a couple of Advil when the phone rings. He almost falls over his own feet in a bid to get there before it goes to voicemail, sure that it’s Amy calling to check on him.

 

It’s not.

 

“Hey Bumper,” And since when does John Mayer remember his name? “It’s John. I got this weird call last night from my ex, Fat Patricia….”


End file.
